


Homestretch

by J_Q



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Bickering, Canon Compliant, M/M, Prison, Talking, based on season 10 promos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-28
Updated: 2019-10-28
Packaged: 2021-01-04 13:58:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21198800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/J_Q/pseuds/J_Q
Summary: Based on the season 10 promos, Mickey and Ian have some unresolved issues that are making their time in prison even more unpleasant. It's time for them to sort that all out.





	1. Nesting Dolls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is basically a long one shot, but I've posted it as 4 chapters for easier reading.

Ian leaned his forehead against the plexiglass window of their cell door, watching his breath condense over and over. He lifted a finger to draw a smiley face before the steam could disappear. For a moment out of desperation, he considered drawing a heart with an _I_ and an _M_ in the center, then remembered that the _M _was in a pissy mood. His boyfriend had become a perpetually pissed off stranger. Even when Mickey was beaking off at some dude in the yard or forcing a newbie to give up his seat in the TV room, Ian was certain all that wrath was still directed at him.

Once upon a time, Ian had been safe from the stormy personality. In fact, once upon a time, he’d been the thing that made Mickey happy. But six months into their incarceration, the honeymoon was over and what remained was a fucking mess that Ian had no idea how to clean up, and Mickey had no interest in even acknowledging.

Rolling his forehead along the glass, he let his body slump against the door. They’d been locked in their cell for over a day now, probably heading into another day. It was the second lockdown this week, fourth this month. The place was packed with more men than it was designed to hold and not enough activity to keep them busy, so threats of mass violence or rebellion were constantly making the rounds. Twenty seven hours ago, they had been dragged from their cell for yet another impromptu contraband search, which resulted in their current lockdown. In that ironic way large organizations had, they figured locking imprisoned men in small rooms for days was a solution to every problem.

“Nesting dolls,” Ian concluded, eyes still on the puffs of breath heating the window as his mind wandered to the science behind condensation. Something about changing states from a gas to--

“Speak the fuck up, mumbles.”

Ian straightened up a little. Mickey hadn’t sounded pissed off, just mildly annoyed. That was such an improvement that Ian turned away from the window, and his only connection to the outside world, to carefully look at Mickey. He was propped up against his pillow, back to the corner of his bunk, pencil in hand. Drawing yet another dude in his sketchbook probably. Ian ignored the bubble of annoyance that thought created and refocused on his original thought.

“Nesting dolls,” he repeated a little louder, taking a couple of tentative steps closer to their bunks. It was like dealing with a rabid dog, who might bite you at any moment. 

“So bored you wanna play with dolls, Gallagher?” Mickey didn’t look up, just kept scratching away on his paper. Ian figured this was his version of porn, which was Mickey’s go-to when he was denied cigarettes and beer. 

“No, those dolls that go inside each other.”

Mickey’s blue eyes flicked to his then back to his porn. “Sounds kinky...and familiar.”

“They're like smaller than each other, ya know?” Ian lifted his bare foot to find a piece of toilet paper stuck to it. “For fuck sake,” he spat picking it off and turning toward the toilet.

“Problem?” A sliver of challenge coated that question.

_Don’t engage, don't engage, don't engage_, Ian chanted mentally. 

“Russian dolls,” he explained instead.

“Fuck you talking about?” 

Ian felt the shift in mood, but avoided looking toward the bed. Damn it, why’d he say that? It was like every third word out of his mouth set off Mickey. There was so much they had to deal with once they were released that it kept Ian up at night. A few weeks ago, he had thought it would be a great idea to bring up Yev and try to talk about how they could deal with that situation once they got out. He’d known it was going to be a shitty conversation, for both of them, but he hadn’t expected Mickey to lose his shit and stop talking to Ian for almost two full days. 

It had likely been the worst 48 hours since Ian had arrived, although not anywhere near as bad as the first hour when he’d thought he’d be dealing with prison alone, but bad because he hated feeling alone when the person he loved most in the world was within arm’s reach.

“Huh?” Mickey prompted, having mastered the ability to make a single utterance feel a little like a punch. 

Calmly dropping the square of paper into the toilet, he turned to Mickey with a forced smile. “You know, those little dolls that fit inside each other. That’s us.” He motioned to the room. “In here.”

Mickey just stared at him, and Ian felt his mood fizzle completely. He’d dreamed about that face for years, in part because he could always see himself reflected in it. The way he made Mickey feel was written so clearly on it. Sadly, that was still true.

Turning back to the toilet, his eyes drifted over the tiny sink. “What’s that?” He bent over slightly to see the white substance smeared on the inner ledge. “Jesus, Mick. Can’t you at least run water over it?”

“Ha! Easy for you to say, man. You have a convenient jizz receptacle.” Despite the fact that they were talking about day old come that hadn’t been cleaned up, Ian felt the buzz under his skin and along his spine signally his body’s desire for Mickey. This corner was the only spot that wasn’t easily visible from the window, so they spent a fair bit of time there. “How ‘bout _you _clean that shit up?”

Twisting the tap to full, Ian splashed water at the side of the sink uselessly. He needed something to wipe it with. The ledge where the toilet paper was supposed to be was empty. Of fucking course. But a trail of mess lead to Mickey’s bunk where the roll was stuffed between his mattress and the wall. 

His eyes continued until they collided with Mickey’s. It was like a slap in the face, and as much as he knew most of what was behind the look was years’ old hurt, it always unleashed Ian’s frustration because he felt so fucking helpless to fix anything.

“Can you pick up one fucking thing around here? It’s not like you have that much shit, Mickey!” He waved his hands around dramatically to emphasize his point.

“Kiss my ass, Gallagher,” Mickey said, clearly ecstatic that he’d unraveled Ian. “You pick it up if it’s picking _your _ass so much.”

Ian breathed deeply through his nose, determined to end this now, but Mickey wasn’t interested in that plan.

“Where the fuck am I puttin’ it anyway? You see a closet around here?” he snickered at what he perceived as his cleverness, like he’d bested Ian in this argument. “Suzy fucking Homemaker.”

“How about the trash?” Ian offered, then continued before Mickey could respond. “You don’t see my shit every fucking where.”

He immediately wished he could take that back because acting like he was better than Mickey was a sure fire way to feel the man’s wrath.

Smiling contentedly, Mickey nodded at him. “Perfect, more room for my shit.”

“Oh my god, I can’t wait to get out of this shit hole,” Ian muttered, snatching the toilet paper from Mickey’s bunk and returning to the sink. Before he could tear a few squares free and wipe up the sink, a shoulder rammed into his and he stumbled sideways, dropping the remaining toilet paper in the open toilet. “Look what you did!”

Mickey ignored him, just paced to the window, and Ian gave up. The sink could stay that way. Sunday was coming up and they had to clean house that day. Ian owed the state a thank you for enforcing weekly clean up.

So instead he sat heavily on Mickey’s bunk, since the guy was now as engrossed by the little window as Ian had been earlier. Ian’s eyes traced the shape of him and all the annoyance drained out. He was worried and a little scared over what was happening. To alleviate some of his panic the last while, he’d focused on making plans for them once they were released, and those plans had gotten more important to him since getting his official release date, but Mickey seemed determined to focus on looking for trouble. It wasn’t going unnoticed by the guards either.

Real panic tried to claim his mind, but he was training himself to calm down. From the moment he’d turned around to find Mickey standing exactly where he was right now, Ian had made a decision to not waste the chance he’d been given. That meant rigid adherence to his mental health plan. No exceptions. He’d taken his medication, he’d tried a meditation of sorts, he’d continued to contemplate God. Anything to keep his mood even and predictable. Mickey, on the other hand, had a very different mental health plan. His involved an endless round of temper tantrums.

Eyes closed, Ian took several calming breaths and visualized the boulevard along Lake Michigan, where he could run full out for miles, feet hitting the pavement rhythmically and drowning out his thoughts. The memory of that feeling relaxed him and helped him calm down. He was fine. Mickey was fine. It was the circumstances. Anyone would be losing it here. In fact, the whole prison was losing it, which was why they were in constant lockdown.

Opening his eyes, they landed on a spare roll of toilet paper tucked under the corner of Mickey’s bed. It was a sign, Ian decided. Everything was going to be okay. Nudging it closer with his foot, he decided to engage Mickey and try to help him see they were okay.

“We need a break,” Ian began, eyes on the roll.

Mickey moved so fast, Ian felt the air around him stir. “You dumpin’ me?”

Ian heard the words but didn’t comprehend them immediately. His body did though because it sent a jolt of adrenaline shooting through his gut and into the base of his skull. He opened his eyes and looked at Mickey wearily, not wanting any part of this conversation, but pretty sure there was no escape route. Did Mickey really believe Ian wanted to break up with him or was he just reminding Ian that he’d fucked up time and time again?

Before Ian could formulate a denial strong enough to convince Mickey, he went into Fuck You, Gallagher mode. Storming around the cell, kicking the door, then wincing in pain. Ian flinched but didn’t respond or offer any sympathy. Second way to piss off his boyfriend was to show pity, which left Ian in unhealthy relationship purgatory. Mickey was hurting but refused to acknowledge it directly, and if Ian tried to do it, then Mickey yelled, swore, threw things or physically attacked Ian. None of those things ever really hurt Ian because all of them reminded Ian that he had hurt Mickey and now he was paying for it.

Mickey had found the toilet paper roll and was kicking it around the cell, where it bounced off the wall and back toward his foot. As the paper unrolled and trailed across the floor, he sent it sailing again. This went on for a few minutes. Mickey panting with effort and anger, toilet paper littering the cell.

When he didn’t calm down, Ian considered crawling back up to his own bunk and tuning him out, but the sheer boredom in that option kept him seated. Instead he watched Mickey’s chest rise and fall under his white tank top. With each kick, Ian imagined the muscles in his abs contracting, which reminded him of all Mickey’s drawings. They looked vaguely like Ian, but he worried a little that Mickey was so pissed off that he had other dudes in mind while he drew them. Maybe not actual men he knew, but just anyone other than Ian.

While Mickey stomped on the scattered toilet paper, clearly losing his damn mind, Ian’s mind slipped into the panic and dejection that constantly hovered around him. How had shit gone so fucking wrong? He’d thought he could force the pieces of his life to bend to his will, but instead he’d ruined the pieces of his life. The piece in front of him barely even talked to him anymore, and Ian wanted to scream. Plus they were now out of goddamn toilet paper.

“Did someone steal your fucking pudding again?” he snapped.

“Dickhead, of fucking course.”

Ian was suddenly excited. Mickey had replied with something other than “fuck you, Gallagher”! They were going to have a conversation and discuss their archenemy, Len Dickenson. All but rubbing his hands together in glee, Ian decided this was the opening he needed. 

“Again?” he prompted, striving for a balance between interested and sympathetic without appearing too eager. 

“Fucker was in front of me at supper line-up.”

Ian sat forward, resting his arms on his knees. It had come to this, where even a measly bit of conversation was like an oasis of attention. “When?”

“Dunno. What fucking day is it today?”

“Um, I think Friday.”

“Wednesday maybe.”

Wednesday Ian worked late in the infirmary, so that made sense. “What’d he do?” 

Dickhead was in his late forties, mean, constantly whistling and had it in for them because he hated redheads apparently. Even though Mickey’s affection had cooled the last few weeks, his protective instincts hadn’t. Ian’s enemies were Mickey’s enemies. Or maybe Mickey just hated whistling. 

“Prick figured out how I feel about my dessert,” he explained, hands on hips, eyes on the almost non-existent roll of toilet paper. “So he took the last chocolate pudding right in front of me.”

“Asshole.”

“And dumped it in the trash on his way to his seat.” With that, he kicked the cardboard roll under his bunk and ground his teeth together making an eerie grinding noise. “Gonna shove my pudding down his fucking throat if we ever get outta this room.”

“Let’s hope we get out soon. Outta T.P.”

“Why don’t you call up room service and order more?” Mickey snapped. “Oh right because this ain’t one of your fancy hotels.”

“What? Fancy hotels?” Ian recoiled a little because he knew there was more to this comment than he wanted to understand.

Without any toilet paper to harass, Mickey turned the full force of his glare on Ian. “Oh, I don’t know, Ian. I must be makin’ shit up.”

Trap. Ian knew it. Defend himself and Mickey’s deluded or lying. Don’t defend himself and Ian is guilty of gallivanting around the North fucking Side with rich assholes. Granted, he’d done that but it was a million damn years ago. He figured it was all code for Fuck You, Gallagher and the life you chose over me, but he’d never know for sure because that open, vulnerable guy was closed up tight and Ian was forbidden entrance.

Wind drained from his sails, Ian’s shoulders slumped. He might as well just return to his bunk, maybe he could will himself to sleep. Or beat his head against the cinderblock wall until he was unconscious.

“Oh, stop sighing like a fucking drama queen.”

That was one trap too many, and Ian surged up, a new rush of adrenaline giving him the confidence to retaliate. He shoved his palms into Mickey’s chest, feeling the warmth and strength. Before the other man could step back, Ian’s dick responded and he shoved a second time making sure it was hard enough that Mickey ended up near the sink.

Ian advanced and Mickey took two steps backward, hitting the wall with a smack. They weren’t completely out of line of sight from the outside, so he dug his hands into the soft cotton of Mickey’s tank intending to shift him further into the corner, but his hands yanked the shirt free from his pants, bunching it up his chest instead.

Mickey’s hands landed on his shoulders and shoved Ian hard, pushing him to his knees. More than willing to oblige if it meant they weren’t bickering or bored, Ian unsnapped the yellow prison pants and pulled them down, taking Mickey’s boxers with them. Apparently, Mickey was as turned on by their heated exchange as Ian was.

He slid his mouth down the length of him, sucking hard then sliding back up, finding the immediate, familiar rhythm soothing. His hand dug into the flesh of Mickey’s hip, holding him still as Ian closed his eyes and let his mind wander back to the boulevard along Lake Michigan. This time he was there with Mickey, strolling lazily. Freedom for miles around them.

Fingers smoothed his hair back from his forehead, pulling him from his daydream. The first pass was gentle, loving even as Mickey’s warm palm cradled his cheek, and Ian’s heart caught in his throat, almost choking himself on Mickey’s thrusts. He was desperate for that affection, desperate for his love. If his mouth couldn’t tell Mickey how he felt in words, it could tell him this way, with his tongue and his lips. 

The next pass of Mickey’s fingers over Ian’s hair was less gentle though, and Ian felt his balls tighten in response. He slid his fingers between Mickey’s legs, searching out his hole, and Mickey dug his fingers into Ian’s scalp, letting loose a series of short, choppy moans. Those sounds were so familiar to Ian. He’d been hearing them half of his life, and he now realized they defined it on some level, like the soundtrack of his best life. He shoved his hand under the band of his own boxers and circled his dick. He was going to come so easily.

The piercing clang of the prison alert system announced that their doors would be opening seconds before it actually happened and seconds after it penetrated Ian’s mind enough for him to remove his mouth from Mickey’s body. He remained on his knees though, panting and mildly confused. Mickey’s hands were still in his hair, and his dick was still inches from Ian’s face. The urge to say screw it and finish him off was overpowering, since the last thing either of them needed at the moment was sexual frustration. But DeSota’s deep voice reached him before the guard himself arrived, and Ian yanked Mickey’s pants back up his legs in time for the sound of a baton clanging against the frame of their open door.

“On your feet, Gallagher,” DeSota said, not sounding particularly interested in what he was witnessing. “That was the lunch bell, so get a move on.”

Adjusting his own pants, Ian let his eyes wander upwards, unsure what he was going to see. Please be love, he begged all the versions of God he’d been exposed to the last year. But Mickey wasn’t even looking at him, his jaw was set in fury and his fingers, which had been stroking Ian’s hair moments ago, were clenched in fists.

Ian looked over his shoulder. Dickhead was grinning from the doorway, then he disappeared, leaving behind the mockingly playful sound of his whistling and a burning need in Ian’s heart to stab the prick with Mickey’s dessert spoon.

******

"Milkovich. Gallagher. As much as I'd love to see you both in the hole for the next month, Warden has a worse fate in store." 

For more than a decade, Unit Manager Mike DeSota has spent 37.5 hours of every week shuffling prisoners from one location to another. His job meant putting up with their shit and maintaining his cool while he did it, but he wasn't paid enough to put up with the endless bickering from these two assholes. 

When Gallagher had first arrived, DeSota was worried the two inmates would end up on the receiving end of some shit from other inmates for the half assed attention they paid to keeping their relationship under wraps. He knew that Milkovich had prison running through his veins, but for a few months, he’d forgotten how to navigate the system focusing instead on reuniting with Gallagher. Whatever had changed recently between them was now the guard’s least favorite part of his job, which was saying a lot.

Even as he approached the holding area, where the two inmates were cuffed to the bench, the air around them crackled with unresolved issues. The entire state correctional system was a sea of unresolved issues, 32,000 men who didn't have a goddamn clue how to sort their shit out living in quarters that were a breeding ground for dredging up past traumas. 

But these two were the ones threatening to push him past his tolerance level and make him behave badly. It was one thing to manage squabbles between two inmates with a hard on for each other; it was another thing when they literally had a hard on for each other, especially when the relationship clearly went back so far that their unresolved shit would fill a bloody ocean.

He stopped in front of the two inmates, watching them actively ignore each other. The electronic exits could swing wide open, and DeSota was sure neither of them would notice, so focused on giving each other the cold shoulder.

"Mandatory therapy," he explained. As his words registered, the aggravation kicked up a notch. "Lemme be more specific. Mandatory _couples_ therapy."

Following their latest shenanigans, DeSota had had enough. Word was they were bickering over who was going to stab that mouthbreather Dickenson, but instead of sticking the inmate with whatever weapon they could fashion on short notice, they’d ended up at each other’s throats. 

From where he had been guarding the lower deck, his second in command, Morley, had seen them start pushing each other, while claiming stabbing rights. By the time they’d arrived in the dining hall, their disagreement had become a full-fledged wrestling match over who was going to get to the man first.

While that was going down, DeSota had been on his way to the mess hall after making the rounds to each cell on his block. He’d arrived to see Milkovich toss Dickenson’s plastic bowl of what looked like custard at Gallagher’s head. He’d ducked swiftly though, so the dessert had landed at DeSota’s feet.

The hall had gotten surprising silent for about three seconds as the show played itself out, and DeSota had the two men cuffed and sent to holding, while he’d tracked down the Warden to discuss how to stem the flow of petty fighting. A prison was a like a microcosm, each part infected all other parts, with only a handful of guards to keep the place from turning on itself.

The recommendation he’d put to the Warden was to have either Milkovich or Gallagher moved to a different block, but the facility was currently at almost twice its originally planned capacity, so his superior had shot down DeSota's idea. He had, however, agreed to force the two inmates into mandatory counseling as part of their parole review. The likelihood, in DeSota’s opinion, of this solving anything was slim because it wouldn’t change the fact that they would be returning to a tiny cell with almost nothing available to distract them--other than the way Gallagher brushed his teeth apparently. Something the guard had heard way too much about the last couple weeks.

But he was half expecting the overcrowding excuse and wasn’t surprised that the system was only going to foot the bill for couple’s therapy not individual therapy. Not enough counselors in the world to deal with all the shit he saw daily, which meant he would escort their asses to Dr. Underwood’s office, every goddamn day if necessary, so they could work through whatever past wrongdoings were creeping into their daily survival. He just hoped they were smart enough to know this was in their best interest.

Yanking his handcuff key from his utility belt, he decided either the two lovebirds got their shit sorted or he, along with every other guard on their block, would see that they were separated for good, one way or another. 

"Dr. Underwood is waiting for you," he said as he inserted the master key into Gallagher's handcuff. DeSota could see metaphorical steam coming from the redhead's ears, and he turned to glare at his boyfriend, accusation in every line of his body. 

Lowering his voice, the guard added, "Don't fuck this up, Gallagher. You're making enemies with people in more powerful positions than you."

He didn't stick around for a reply, just moved onto the other prisoner. Again as he unlocked the cuff from Milkovich's wrist this time, he quietly goaded him. "You want your boy to get out without serving extra time? Underwood holds his parole in the palm of his hand."

The twitching in the man's jawline increased, but his eyes snapped immediately to DeSota's and held. Hard, prison weary blue eyes slid away from his, but DeSota knew the message had been received. 


	2. Albatross

“Good afternoon, gentlemen. This session is an opportunity for me to get to know you both and assess the situation,” Dr. Underwood began, resting his arms on the wooden desk that separated him from his new patients.

Seated in his visitor’s chair, Ian stared out the doctor’s window, in part to avoid the sneer on Mickey’s face and in part because it had been six months since he’d had a different view of the outside world. Granted it was just a parking lot, but fuck, it made him desperate to get out.

“Our sessions are mandatory, and therefore, my role is to determine if you both have established behavioral goals that will appease the parole board.” The doctor continued with his standard opening, clearly attempting to guide them into some participation or acknowledgement that this was a two way street. Ian would be god-damned if he was going to speak first though. He was well aware he’d lost his shit back in the dining hall, and being cuffed to the holding cell bench for two fucking hours hadn’t helped him find his way back to reasonableness. 

“I understand that your relationship is feeling the pressures of confinement,” the doctor added patiently.

Ian flicked his eyes at the guy in time to watch him run two fingers over his thick, dark Movemeber mustache and Ian wondered if he should grow one too. Support the movement and give him something to do for his remaining month here. The doctor’s voice snapped him back to where he was. Trapped and thinking a fucking mustache would distract him from his life. 

“According to the guards and other inmates, you are both showing a lack of prosocial skills when dealing with anger-inducing situations. Does that sound correct?”

“Sounds like mumbo fucking jumbo.” 

While Ian was inclined to agree with Mickey’s cranky comment, he wasn’t actually going to agree. Two could play the ornery game. Mickey may have invented it, but Ian had learned from the master.

“In order for this to work, you both need to participate.” The doctor sounded tired now, and Ian felt a moment of regret. He was probably only trying to help, and god knows they really did need it. Maybe this was the opportunity he’d been waiting for. He turned his attention to the man when he spoke again. “Can you tell me what happened that resulted in mandatory therapy?”

“Anger inducing fucking situations, obviously,” Mickey smirked, his fingers tapping aggressively on his thigh. Instinctively, Ian stretched a hand toward Mickey intending to ease his anxious movements by distracting him with his touch. He knew the expanded prohibitions on smoking weren’t helping Mickey’s state of mind.

“Undoubtedly,” the doctor agreed then turned to Ian, probably sensing a slightly more hospitable environment. “Let’s begin by telling me about your relationship.”

Ian’s hand shot back to his own lap as he swallowed, overwhelmed by the idea of summing up everything they’d been through since Mickey stole Kash’s gun. “It’s, um, complicated.”

“Undoubtedly,” he repeated, smiling at his attempt to joke. “Can you sum it up?”

Shrugging, Ian tried to find the words. “We’re a couple,” he began but stopped to look at Mickey, which drew Underwood’s eyes there as well. 

“You’re doing great, Shakespeare.” Mickey waved his tattooed fingers at Ian encouraging him to continue.

Pursing his lips, Ian wondered if steam had just erupted from his ears. “Thanks,” he spat. “We grew up in the same shitty neighborhood and been together since we were teenagers.”

Mickey mumbled something that sounded like “pfft” and Ian gave him a side look but didn’t get any clarification. “We’ve clearly had some challenges along the way.”

He paused expecting something snarky from Mickey, but the doctor stepped in before that could happen. “Such as?” This got Mickey’s full attention and he turned his upper body in Ian’s direction, tipping his head in overeager anticipation of Ian’s answer.

“Initially, homophobia.” The doctor nodded and Mickey sniffed in either agreement or disagreement. Ian had no idea anymore. “Then mental illness.”

That got a surprised eyebrow lift from Mickey. He mustn’t have been prepared for Ian’s honesty.

“Yes,” Underwood said. “I had a look at your files.”

“Now prison.” He waved a hand toward the window where a prison transport bus moved slowly through the parking lot making Ian shudder.

“I’m impressed that you’ve managed to stay together through challenges that would weigh heavily on a relationship,” the doctor agreed, and Ian felt a sliver of hope peek through the clouds because he believed that too.

Until Mickey spoke. “Guess that depends how you define _together_, doc.”

“How do you define it, Mickey?” Underwood responded immediately, and Ian stared even harder out the window, wishing he could see Lake Michigan from here.

“Maybe you should ask Ian.”

“I’m asking you.”

The transport van turned a corner, heading toward the rear of the compound. A fresh set of inmates to add to the overcrowding.

“You know, not fucking around, having each other’s back. Ain’t fucking rocket science,” Mickey explained. “Pretty basic rule is no other boyfriends.”

“Does that include not marrying someone else?” Ian asked before he could shut his damn mouth. 

“Definitely wasn’t a fucking boyfriend.”

“Well, in that case…” Ian let that thought dangle.

“I had fucking reasons, man!”

“We all have fucking reasons, Mickey!”

“Okay,” the doctor interrupted before this could head into dangerous territory. “I see this is a difficult and hurtful subject for both of you. We need to discuss it further, but not right now. Let’s remain in the moment and focus instead on the comfort and security you obtain from your relationship.”

“Pfft.” This time he didn’t mumble.

“Pfft?” Ian glared at Mickey, barely containing his outrage.

“Pfft,” he repeated, barely acknowledging Ian’s presence.

“I swear to god, Mickey.”

“Go for it,” he snickered. “You got a direct line to the big guy, don’t ya?”

“You are such a dick.”

“Ha! That’s rich.”

Ian closed his eyes, parking lot forgotten as he tried to conjure up Lake Michigan for the thousandth time today. Gay Jesus was a bit of tender spot for Ian. He still didn’t know how he felt about the whole thing, and he hadn’t really examined it since getting locked up. But he’d wandered into all the worship rooms on the compound at one point or another thinking there was still something to it.

Underwood cleared his throat. “Part of our purpose here is to identify negative communication patterns and replace them with healthy patterns. Let’s try using feeling words to--”

“You _feeling _frustrated, Ian?” Mickey’s voice was laced with fake concern, and he didn’t wait for a response. “Maybe you should leave then.” 

Ian felt himself starting to shut down as the inevitable trap closed in around him again, knowing nothing he said would make a difference, but deciding to play along with the doctor anyway. “I’m sorry you feel abandoned, Mickey.”

“Fuck you.” Mickey’s eyebrows shot up in disbelief. “Abandoned, my ass, bitch. I ain’t your fucking lap dog.”

Mentally exhausted by the loop they were trapped in, Ian gave Underwood a _see what I mean_ look before muttering in frustration, “More like a mean old junkyard dog.” Then he returned his attention to the window, where the familiar red stripe of an Illinois emergency medical rig pulled into the parking lot and Ian’s mood tanked completely. It was all a waste of fucking time. Everything he tried turned to shit.

Mickey chuckled meanly. “Least I’m not a show poodle. Prancing around.”

“Lap dog,” Ian sneered right back, giving Mickey the same glare he’d offered to Ian since they’d arrived, while the frustration on Mickey’s face turned to barely controlled rage. 

“At least a lap dog is fucking loyal, man.” 

Ian pressed his lips together as guilt choked him, hating how his past behavior could be interpreted, hating how he’d become so detached from himself that he wasn’t even sure himself why he’d done the things he’d done, hating most of all the feeling of hopelessness that he would never be able to undo what couldn’t be undone. They last few years were imprinted on their lives, irrevocably, and they cast a shadow over everything they had today.

After writing a note in a small journal, Underwood cleared his throat and Ian glared at his stupid mustache. “Good communication cannot be established through sarcasm and name calling. As I was saying, let’s work on constructive ways of expressing how we feel. Tune into how our body is feeling. Mickey, you seem upset that Ian has suggested you might be dealing with feelings of abandonment.”

Mickey nudged the corner of his lip but remained silent. When Underwood continued to watch him, he shrugged noncommittally.

“Is this a concern you currently have?”

“That Ian’s gonna leave me? Nah,” Mickey shrugged again, and Ian whipped his head to look at him disbelievingly. “No need to worry about something you know is going to happen. Mostly just wondering when.”

"Never," Ian said, shaking his head. "Never."

"Till it's too hard, like some glass comes between us."

Ian felt sick, simultaneously desperate to hide and desperate to be understood. But he wasn’t going to leave, ever. He knew what leaving looked like, and they’d have to physically drag him away from Mickey.

“Mickey, you don't seem prepared to accept Ian at his word. How are you feeling right now?” Dr. Underwood asked.

“How the fuck do you think I feel? Fan-fucking-tastic.”

“Was that sarcasm?”

“Good catch, Doc.”

Underwood smiled slightly. "Sarcasm is a defense mechanism. Often we'll use it to diminish important emotions. Our own or others."

"Why wouldn't I wanna diminish them? You telling me people wanna feel this shit?" His face screwed up in utter disbelief. 

"Do the feelings go away by being sarcastic?" The doctor countered. Ian flicked his gaze between the two men, watching Mickey's face for a reaction. "They exist for a reason."

"Fine. Why?" He looked like he was preparing for battle, shoulders hunched, lips in that familiar pout. Ian ached watching it. 

"That's why we're here, to find out." The doctor smiled apologetically and Mickey shook his head.

"So you don't know either."

"That's therapy," he agreed. "And the basis of couples therapy is to establish a more secure attachment through a willingness to be emotionally vulnerable, which means identifying how you're feeling so you can be open with Ian and begin rebuilding trust.”

“I tried that shit. Being open and all that. Definitely didn’t secure any fucking attachment.”

Underwood looked surprised, and Ian felt his chest constrict as air tried to leave his lungs. This was it, the worst of the worst. The hurt at the center of it all. How hard Mickey had tried and how unable Ian had been to understand that.

The doctor made another note in his book, and Ian met Mickey’s eyes briefly.

“Is there something you’d like to share with Ian?” Underwood paused. “Without sarcasm?”

Mickey nodded vaguely then rolled his head along his shoulders, so he could stare up at the ceiling. “Just say it, Ian, please. Let’s just get it over with. Doesn’t matter what I do for you. Doesn’t matter that I always come for you. It’s never enough.”

Ian was never going to say the words that Mickey was certain sat on Ian’s tongue and Mickey was never going to believe him anyway, so he’d change the subject instead. “You don’t have to rescue me.”

“Coulda fooled me.” It was obvious he regretted those words as soon as they entered the space between them, but Ian turned toward him anyway as realization dawned on him, as the pieces fell into place. How could he be so willfully blind?

“I’m like an...an, what’s it called?” His mind was buzzing now, thoughts flying in all directions. “Fuck, it starts with an A?

“An annoying asshole?”

Ian’s eyes locked on Mickey’s. “Albatross!”

“Fuck are you talkin’ about? First with the fucking dolls now birds.”

But Ian ignored him. “You think I’m your responsibility. That’s why you came back.” It was now so obvious to him that Mickey was pissed that he’d had to give up his freedom to save Ian from himself yet again.

“Bullshit.” Mickey’s voice washed over him. “Not this shit again.”

“Oh god,” he breathed, as all of Mickey’s behavior the last few weeks began to make sense. “You think rescuing me from myself means you love me.”

“No, fuck,” Mickey almost yelled. “You got it backwards, okay?”

“No, I don’t. I get it now.” Tears were burning his eyes, but he looked directly at Mickey. “I remember how we were together. Before. I remember how you looked at me. I remember. You looked at me like I was....”

“Ian.” His voice continued to rise. “That’s how I looked at you.”

“Now you can barely stand to be in the same room with me.” They stared at each other, neither moving. “And I made that happen. While I was fucking around, trying to be some Ian worthy of being alive, I fucked up the only thing I had going for me. Now, I’ve become your burden.” 

“Mickey,” the doctor said quietly. “Do you hear what Ian is saying?”

“I just want you safe with me.”

“Do you hear what _you’re _saying, Mickey? I sound like a child not your boyfriend. Fuck, I don’t even blame you. I’d treat me this way too.” 

Mickey released a long breath, pushing back into his chair, like he was trying to distance himself from Ian.

“Could there be other explanations for Mickey’s actions? Other than him viewing you as his responsibility?” Underwood asked.

Ian frowned, and Underwood nodded encouragingly.

“That he loves me?”

“Duh,” Mickey said then batted a hand to show he regretted his sarcasm, but the corner of Ian’s mouth tipped up at the familiar snarkiness. He wasn’t really interested in a sarcasm-free Mickey, just an open Mickey.

“In healthy doses, care and safekeeping are important parts of an intimate relationship, Ian, not something to fear. When a partner shows concern, it doesn’t mean they pity you. It means they care about you,” Underwood explained. “Is it possible that you were overwhelmed by Mickey’s care rather than it stemming from pity?” 

Ian couldn’t look at Mickey, certain that all the shit that went down back when Ian had gotten sick would be written on that expressive face. He never, ever wanted to see that again.

_This is you breaking up with me?_

Ian felt his own leg start to vibrate in time with Mickey’s as the shit piled up in his mind. “_Why_ would you love me though?”

When Mickey remained silent, he regretted the question. It was way too loaded, the answer impossible to put into words.

Underwood saved them from the awkward silence. “Let’s take a step back. Ian, explain to Mickey what you need from him.”

“I need you to talk to me. Why can’t you talk to me?” Ian pleaded.

“Don’t see you talking about shit either.”

“Because you’re so angry. At me. At life. At everything. It’s like we’re 15 again and I only get a part of you.”

“I’m allowed to be mad,” he spit out, but also looked at Underwood for confirmation, which kicked Ian right in the heart.

Underwood nodded at him. “Of course, your emotions are valid, and so is your need to rely on self-preservation methods. We do what we need in order to survive. However, what we need to do to survive at one point in our lives is not necessarily what we need to do at another point. In fact, those past behaviors could be interfering with our ability to thrive today.”

Ian felt hope swell like it did when he’d arrived at Beckman and discovered Mickey was his cellmate. They could learn new coping techniques and stay together. Happily even.

The doctor continued. “Love is an attachment bond, so when we feel like there's distance or separation from our partner, we think it means our attachment is in danger and that triggers primal fear, which we often express through patterns we established in early childhood.” 

Ian thought maybe he understood most of that and it seemed accurate for them. “Neither of us had much luck in early childhood.” 

“As I suspected,” the doctor smiled. The idea that maybe they weren’t completely to blame for every fucking thing that had gone wrong lifted some weight from his shoulders.

"So you're saying we're acting like fucking children?" Mickey snapped.

"No, I'm saying that we learn how to deal with the world when we're young and we apply that to the rest of our lives," Underwood explained. "It is challenging to change those patterns, but not impossible."

Ian turned toward Mickey, watching the painfully familiar movements. Tattooed knuckle nudging his nose, full lips pressed together, tensed shoulders. Ian knew them all. He’d known them before but lately they were all he ever saw. Surely, he could make Mickey see they had a chance. “We’re in the homestretch, Mick. I can fucking feel it. We just need to figure this out.”

He was at least looking at Ian, but he could see that Mickey was stuck and it was freaking Ian out.

“You’re holding us back,” he blurted out.

“Excuse me?” Mickey shot out of his chair, nearly knocking it over.

Ian jumped up too, grabbing Mickey’s biceps. “No, I mean--”

Mickey yanked his arms free and stepped away. His face had shifted from disbelief to hurt to fury. 

“Listen to me,” Ian tried to explain. “Please!” But Mickey wasn’t even aware Ian had spoken. 

“I’m not enough, never gonna be. Even when I sacrifice for you.” Mickey was blindly backing away from Ian, obviously desperate to be anywhere that Ian wasn’t. They were back where they started. Strangers who loved each other. 

“That’s not true,” Ian pleaded. “I’m saying that you’re so damn angry at me that it’s interfering with our ability to plan our future.”

“Mickey,” the doctor tried speaking over Ian, “coping with negative--”

“I gotta get outta here.”

Ian dropped to his chair, eyes on his lap as the office door banged shut behind his enraged boyfriend. 


	3. Simple

Motherfucker, Mickey muttered when his vision filled with DeSota’s fat fucking face. As fucking usual, he had no power over anything in his goddamn life, including whether he got to walk away from his asshole of a boyfriend during prison mandated _therapy_.

“Yeah, yeah,” he spat and walked back into Underwood’s office, drawing the attention of both men. “Changed my fucking mind.”

“Thanks, Mike,” Underwood said as the guard closed the door on his way back out.

Mickey stomped his way back to his seat, flopped down in it, crossed his arms, spread his thighs wide and scowled until his forehead started to ache. If he could come up with more ways to express how fucking pissed off he was, he’d employ them.

“Welcome back,” Underwood said, smiling then opening his arms wide on the desk in front of him and Mickey braced himself for more psycho-babble. “Withdrawing emotionally and physically is one of those coping mechanisms that we were talking about. Necessary sometimes, counter-productive sometimes.”

Mickey had had enough of this bullshit and spoke before the doctor could bring up fucking feelings again. “Especially when you got nowhere to fucking go.”

“Impotence can trigger--”

“Fuck you talking ‘bout?” He glared at Ian, demanding with the power of his gaze to know what was said while he was gone for 30 fucking seconds, but his green eyes got big and stupid like he had no clue either.

“Sorry, I read too many psychology books,” Underwood held up his hands. “I mean helplessness, feeling like you have no control over your life.”

“Just fucking say that then.”

“I'll work on it."

"You learn that shit in childhood?" Mickey figured the guy was born with an encyclopedia up his ass.

"Actually, yes," he laughed. "What I meant to say was that prison can increase an overall sense of powerlessness, resulting in an escalation in anger and violent confrontation.”

“Ain’t my first time in the joint, doc. Probably write a fucking psychology book about it.” Prison wasn’t the only place where anger and violent confrontation ruled though, but he wasn’t planning to mention his fucking childhood to their therapist even if he got his fucked up communication skills from it.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Ian blurted out, startling Mickey from his unpleasant memories.

"Huh?"

"You shouldn't be here."

The constant tightness in his chest shortened his breath, and he could feel the need to smash something take over his body. “So you _don’t _want me here then?” 

“That’s not what I said!” By the way his fists clenched in his lap, Ian was having the same thoughts.

“Well, it’s what I’m fucking asking, so answer the damn question,” he insisted. “Simple yes or no will do.”

“But it’s not simple, Mickey. Nothing is ever fucking simple.”

Ignoring the pain in his chest, he nodded. “So that’s a no then.”

“Oh for chrissake, of course I want you here. This place is fucking intimidating,” Ian yelled, and Mickey watched his face redden. “And I missed you all the fucking time. Literally, all the fucking time. Even when I tried hard not to.”

“You really did give it the old college try.” He couldn’t stop the comment, even though he knew it wasn’t helping them sort out their shit. “So what’s the fucking problem then?”

“Why are you fucking here if you’re so mad that you can’t even look at me?” Mickey recognized the signs of an overwhelmed Gallagher, who was realizing he didn’t have everything fucking figured out. “Because you shouldn’t be here, that’s why. You were free and now you’re locked up.” Ian’s face got all screwed up as he said that, and Mickey wanted to smack him for his constant stupidity.

“Do you ever listen to anything I say, man? I told you what makes me free. _Simple _as that.”

“It’s not simple like that for me.”

“You think I don’t know that? Like I forgot the last 8 fucking years?” A dry chuckle escaped from his throat at the idea of a simple Ian Gallagher. 

The doctor cleared his throat. Mickey had almost forgotten that he was hovering around them like a fucking hairy nanny, with his ridiculous mustache. “We build compassion by acknowledging and attempting to understand the point of view of our partner.”

“I acknowledge that you are a complicated motherfucker.” Mickey felt a bit of the pressure in his chest release for some reason. “Shit, Ian, not one second with you has been simple.”

“See! I told you it’s not a simple answer!”

“Lemme fucking finish before you blow shit out of proportion, again?” He held a hand up when Ian opened his mouth. “Gonna shut the fuck up?”

Ian nodded, lips pursed like an old woman, and Mickey felt even more pressure release. He was still mad at the prick, but damn it, the guy made him weak. 

“You’re not simple, you got all these goddamn ideas and dreams and shit. Even when you were a scrawny little shithead, thinking you were gonna be a war hero, lead the fucking country to glory or some shit like that.” Mickey raised his eyebrows this time, daring Ian to interrupt.

“Don’t open your damn mouth and start getting down on yourself because that self-pity shit ain’t gonna work on me. It fucking sucks that you lost that, and I’d smash some more heads if there were any to smash, but we know how that ended last time. And anyway, you became a fucking EMT so it worked out.” 

Their bodies were turned toward each other for the first time since they entered the room, and even though Mickey knew that Ian was dying to travel down the road where they bemoaned his stupid ass decision to torch a van and end his career, Ian kept his mouth shut.

Mickey nodded his approval. “What’s fucking amazing in all that, Ian, is that you chose me back then and that changed me. You were gonna get out of our fucked up world and live a good life and god, I imagined for a minute that I could go with you if I just let you lead the way.” Mickey wasn’t sure if Ian was breathing, he’d become so still. “Then life fucked us over again and a-fucking-gain. You got sick and we were both fucking lost. We didn’t have you to guide us, and I just wanted to keep you fucking safe until you were better. That's all I could do and I fucked it up."

"No!"

"Lemme finish, for fuck sake?"

Ian released a shaky breath but nodded. He'd finally shut Gallagher up. The sap was watching him like he was about to give the fucking Gettysburg address. It made him want to smile until he remembered where they were and the shit they had to deal with.

He released a chest full of air before continuing. "I fucked it up by torturing that bitch even if she deserved it. It’s just that I wasn't…"

When Mickey hesitated, Ian moved to the edge of his seat, so he could touch Mickey’s knee. “What?” he demanded. “You weren’t what? Finish please.”

“I wasn’t...prepared for you to leave me. Definitely wasn’t prepared to be so fucking alone in here.”

“How did that make you feel, Mickey?” Underwood asked, but Mickey was focused on the Ian’s fingers which were digging into the flesh along his inner thigh. 

He waved a hand vaguely around his chest because whatever he meant it was centered around the constant tightness there. 

“Emotional pain is often centered in the chest, especially when we are feeling sadness or mistrust.” The doctor paused and Ian’s eyes filled with moisture. “When we feel let down by someone we love.”

Mickey wasn’t sure what would have happened if Ian hadn’t been here when he heard those words, if Ian was still living a life separate from Mickey’s, but those sad eyes and the grip he had on Mickey’s thigh kept him from falling apart. 

“Yeah,” Ian said quietly. “I took away your defenses. Made you give them up in order to be with me.”

“Guess so.” That sounded true and make Mickey’s chest hurt a little less.

“Then I left you.”

Mickey pulled his leg out of Ian’s grip with a little more force than he’d intended, but the pressure from those fingers was now making him feel trapped. He glanced at Ian expecting to see the familiar snit on the redhead’s face that usually accompanied any of Mickey’s attempts to assert himself. But Ian still looked soft and welcoming, and Mickey suddenly missed his touch.

“Feeling compassion for each other’s vulnerability and past traumas is necessary to rebuilding trust,” the doctor explained but Mickey ignored him, focusing instead on Ian’s eyes like he could crawl in there and finally be safe. 

“Mickey,” Ian began. “Are you afraid of what’s gonna happen when we get out? Are you worried that I won’t be waiting for you?”

They’d returned to that open wound, the place neither of them knew how to navigate, and the place where Mickey felt most insecure. “Why would you? I got nothing to offer you. Literally, nothing.”

“What?” Ian’s eyes widened almost comically.

“You want someone with a job and fucking prospects. Went back to all that instead of--nevermind, fuck. We both know I’m not that guy.”

“You are that guy, though. I know you can do anything. I’ve seen it.”

“See!” Mickey said turning Ian’s previous comment back on him. “You only want me if I become that guy.”

“No.” 

He could see the desire to be understood radiating from every cell in Ian’s body, but Mickey figured Ian couldn’t see the truth. “All you can fucking talk about is turning me into an upstanding fucking citizen. Goddamn father of the fucking year.”

“I just want us to be okay when we get out, that’s all.”

“Well, I’m fucked for life and you knew it all along.”

“Yeah, I am too. I just didn’t know it all along,” he smiled a little. “So we’re perfect for each other.”

Ian’s outburst triggered another one of Underwood’s essays on talking about shit. “Unhealthy thoughts can lead to unhealthy behavior, which is why we are working toward sharing our thoughts, in a positive way, and maybe along the way discovering that some of those thoughts aren’t accurate.”

Mickey wanted to roll his eyes into the back of his head but, aside from all the long ass words the guy used, he couldn’t really find a legit reason for it. He definitely had his share of unhealthy thoughts.

“Do you understand what Ian is saying Mickey?”

“Sure, that he wants us to get our shit together." Mickey wanted that too but, fuck, how? "Does Ian understand, like really understand, that all I can ever offer him is me?” He tapped his chest to emphasize what he meant and turned his attention to Ian. “Like, my body. I can be here when you need me or I can kill someone for you.” He glanced at Underwood. “Hypothetically.”

“Mickey.” 

That word came out of Ian’s mouth so softly that Mickey knew he was in danger of losing himself in Ian again, he could feel it. “That’s it.”

Ian smiled his dopey ass smile, sliding further forward in his chair so their knees could touch again. “It’s more than enough.”

He looked down at their knees, wondering if that was even true. Ian had needed him to keep their lives from becoming a train wreck and he’d failed. How was he going to manage it any better next time when he couldn’t even keep it together in prison, where life was decided for them?

“As I mentioned earlier, safekeeping and care are part of a relationship, but that isn't the same as responsibility, Mickey,” Underwood said, but Mickey continued to stare at their knees where Ian’s fingers were now tapping lightly. “You are not responsible for Ian.”

All the loosening in his chest disappeared at those words, and he sucked in some air. He didn’t know if they were true or not, but it didn’t matter because he had to be responsible. If he wasn’t, who would be when the inevitable happened?

“What?” Ian asked. “Please tell me.”

But the words were trapped inside, in the place where his chest was tight. 

“This is a safe space to express yourself,” Underwood explained. “Have you ever felt safe?” 

Never in his whole life did he want a smoke more than in that moment. Safe wasn’t a word that he entertained often, unless it was associated with Ian and keeping him that way. “Maybe.”

“With me,” Ian said, speaking on Mickey’s behalf. “Before.”

Tears pricked Mickey’s eyes, but he resisted the urge to jam his palms into his eye sockets and deny their presence. 

“I used to be a safe place for him. It was why he tried that emotional vulnerability. He knew I needed it.”

He bit the inside of his cheek to keep all the mushy shit from destroying what was left of his anger.

“Now I’m not, and we both know it. Will you ever be able to trust me again?"

"I trust you."

"But?"

“But nothing. I trust you.” Ian’s lips started to purse again as frustration took over. “Shit. It’s your fucking bipolar I don’t trust, okay?”

Ian turned away slightly, looking over his shoulder at the window, and Mickey felt that helpless fury roll over his body. Here they go again, it was just a matter of fucking time. His knee started to vibrate against Ian’s and the redhead turned to look at it.

“You’re right,” Ian said, finally meeting his eyes. “I don’t trust it either, but I trust you.”

Mickey glanced at the doctor, but he was making more notes in his book. “What’s that mean, Ian?”

“That we’re on the same team.” They stared at each other for several beats as the past played out between them. “So I’m saying that we play for the same team, Mick.”

“Your jokes are an albatross, man.”

“You say that, but I don’t think you really mean it,” Ian countered then leaned forward, looking into Mickey’s eyes carefully. “Turns out I can only be me with you.”

“Who the fuck else you gonna be?” Sometimes it was like aliens dropped Gallagher into his lap without any instructions on how to manage the guy.

Ian looked a little unsure. “You’d be surprised,” he said quietly. Mickey wasn’t sure he was up to knowing about any of that today. 

“We don’t have a lot of time left this afternoon,” Underwood said, his notebook open on the desk again. “But I think that referencing Ian’s mental health is important and shouldn’t be left until our next session.”

He was looking at Ian while he said that, and Mickey watched Ian nodded in agreement. When Underwood turned his attention to Mickey, he licked his lips in mild panic wondering if he could find the right words or if there actually were any words that wouldn’t make Ian leave him.

“Was there something else you wanted Ian to know? Something you want to ask him?”

Flicking a glance at Ian, he didn’t see any resentment, so he nodded.

“I promise to listen and not react.”

After one long exhale, he spit it out. “You stopped taking your meds.”

“No I fucking didn’t!” Ian sat up straight at that outburst and their knees separated a hair, symbolizing what Mickey figured was the crater about to open up between them.

“Liar.”

“What?” he spat in disbelief.

“You said you wouldn’t react, that you’d listen.”

“Yes, you’re right. I’m sorry. You just surprised me.”

Underwood’s voice broke through their heavy breathing and intense eye contact. “Communication,” was all he said though, and Mickey remembered their last misunderstanding. Maybe this was one too. God, he hoped so.

“Fuck, I know you hate it but I watch to make sure you take your pills. You haven’t been to the pharmacy for five weeks, Ian. Five fucking weeks!”

He sat back in his chair now, waiting for the fallout. For Ian’s anger, for confirmation that he was about to start believing he was Jesus fucking Christ again.

“I’m sorry, Mickey. I’m on a new combination of pills. Since I started working in the infirmary, the doctor heard about a trial drug and got me in the test group, so I get my meds there instead of the pharmacy.” Ian looked relieved but Mickey was stunned.

“And you didn’t fucking tell me?” he accused crossing his arms to stop himself from smacking the asshole.

“We haven’t talked about the bipolar since I got here, so I didn’t think you wanted to. I was trying to respect that.” Ian looked like he was regaining some of his arrogance, figuring he had it all under control now. 

“Bullshit, man, you were keeping your shit to yourself like you always do.”

“I really thought you didn’t want to talk about it.”

“I didn’t want to talk about it because I didn’t want you to break up with me, you fucker.”

"I'm never going to break up with you," Ian insisted. "You said you trusted me. Now who's the liar."

Mickey bit down on his lip, sure his teeth were going to draw blood, but he held his tongue.

“Ian," Underwood said. "By not sharing intimate details of your life, you're blocking Mickey from participating fully in your life. That can create a distance, even unintended."

"I know," Ian admitted, looking down at his lap. "It's happened to me."

"How did you feel then?" The doctor was watching Ian as closely as Mickey was now.

"Desperate to know I was the most important thing in his life. Terrified every moment was the last one," he paused to look at Mickey. "And ultimately just angry."

Mickey slid forward until his knees touched Ian's. "You were," he said and Ian tilted his head. "The most important thing."

"I know that now, but I couldn't always see it. Do you understand?"

“Yeah. You wouldn’t have left me if you hadn’t got sick.” Mickey knew that with enough certainty that he had bet his entire future on Ian. “You were fucking crazy about me.”

“I really was. Still fucking am.” Ian’s hand was back on Mickey’s knee, squeezing but not suffocating. “Shit, Mickey, tell me something that you’re scared to tell me.”

“You’re an asshole?” he smirked.

“Nope, you’re not afraid to tell me that. It’s kind of your pet name for me.”

Mickey checked in with that spot in his chest and it felt loose, like he was going to be okay. “You hurt me.”

“I know,” Ian agreed. “I’m sorry.”

“A fuck of a lot, Ian.” Mickey stood up, feeling antsy now, unable to stay in his seat.

“I know.” Ian stood up too, inches from Mickey. “I’m sorry.”

“I trusted you and it fucked me up.” He breathed in Ian's smell, his warmth, his existence. Maybe it really was going to be okay now.

“I’m sorry.” Ian rested his forehead against Mickey’s, inhaling deeply too. Then his hand pressed into Mickey’s lower back with enough pressure that he sagged a little into Ian’s body. 

“Can we be done now?” He felt drained. “Tired.”

“Yeah.” Ian’s hand tightened its hold. “Emotional vulnerability will do that.” 

He’d probably said that to lighten the mood, but Mickey felt his body stiffen when the ominous threat of their future returned.

Ian pulled back trying to look at Mickey’s face. “Hey, what?” When he got no response, his voice sharpened just a little. “Tell me. I really do promise to listen and not react.”

He stared at the dark red stubble forming on Ian’s jaw and along his throat. “What’s gonna happen when shit gets rough for you again?” 

“Then you’re gonna look after me,” Ian said and Mickey’s eyes shot upwards in surprise. He couldn’t think of anything Ian would hate more than knowing he was letting someone take care of him. “And I’m gonna love you for it.”

“Oh.”

“Yup, and I’ll look after you when you need it. Like right now,” Ian said calmly. “You’re gonna let me take care of you today.” His hand cupped the back of Mickey’s head, pressing until his cheek rested on Ian’s shoulder. Mickey could feel lips leave a kiss on the crown of his head.

After a moment, he pulled away wondering if Underwood had been watching everything that just went down, not really caring one way or another unless it meant he’d back their parole. The guy was writing in his notebook. “Did we pass?”

Underwood closed his notebook with a dramatic snap. “You’re foundation is strong, but I’m going to recommend several more sessions. A lot of stuff came up about your pasts that, in my professional opinion, will continue to threaten that foundation if left untreated.”

All the loosening in Mickey’s chest slammed shut like their cell door every night. He wanted to hurl Underwood’s little fucking notebook against the wall. And maybe a chair or two.

“Mickey.” The tone of Ian’s voice got his attention. Their eyes met and he could see the same reluctance in Ian’s expression, but his lips turned up. “Can I take you out to dinner tonight?”

“Jesus, Gallagher,” he muttered but his lips quirked too. “Sure.”

Ian stepped back so he could pump his fist. “Yes! I’ll pick you up at exactly 5:17.”

“You know where I live, Romeo?”

“Yeah, I’ve been kinda obsessed with you for a long time,” Ian smiled, all cocky and self-assured. "Never gonna get rid of me."


	4. Chocolate Pudding

DeSota scanned the mess hall watching for subtle movements among the inmates, deciding that his job wasn’t a whole lot different from the job of taking his kids to the local play zone. Constant vigilance in hopes of stemming any eruptions before they became an unfortunate situation.

His eyes strayed to the Gallagher-Milkovich table, where the two men were eating supper. They’d left the therapy session in a far better mood than they’d entered, but DeSota wasn’t letting them off the hook until Underwood felt they were able to maintain this equilibrium, especially Milkovich once his boy was released. 

Currently, Gallagher was smiling around the gravy laden potatoes he’d shoved into his mouth. “You want my pudding?” he asked as DeSota slowly made his rounds.

“I got one. Dickhead’s minding his fucking manners,” Milkovich said loud enough for Dickenson to hear, and DeSota released a sigh. 

“I know, but you can have mine too. You like chocolate.” Gallagher slid his plastic bowl of untouched pudding off his tray and onto Milkovich’s, but his fingers remained on the edge of the bowl when the other man tried to pull it toward himself. They did a little tug-o-war and the redhead’s smirk got bigger and bigger.

“Ian, take your fingers off--” But Milkovich paused, glancing over his boyfriend’s shoulder and meeting Dickenson’s mocking gaze as his lips puckered into a whistle that filled the air around them. Milkovich grabbed his spoon, shoved it into the chocolate pudding on his tray and ran it along his tongue slowly, eyes never leaving his enemy’s. Then he ran his chocolate covered tongue over his lips. The actions were sexual in nature but murderous in intent.

Before either Gallagher could turn to see what had caught the other man’s attention or DeSota could intervene, Dickenson kicked his chair back and rushed at their table, knocking over two empty chairs on his way. Milkovich was on his feet, chocolate pudding forgotten as he prepared for combat.

Immediately, half the mess hall stood up to get a better look at the evening’s entertainment, blocking DeSota’s access to the situation. Through the crowd, he could see Gallagher turn around in confusion, just as Dickenson arrived behind him. His eyes, and DeSota’s, immediately dropped to Dickenson’s hands, where a flash of metal glinted.

Gallagher’s fist connected savagely with the cartilage of Dickenson’s throat but not fast enough to stop the sharpened metal from slicing through the white cotton of his tank top, leaving a trail of red behind. Both men stumbled back, grabbing at their injured bodies.

“You’re a fucking deadman!” Milkovich yelled, getting one knee up on the table so he could climb over it and get to Dickenson, who was now being pinned to the dining room floor by Kassian, while Morley got the weapon out of his hand. DeSota was pissed that he was going to miss his kids' bedtime ritual now. 

“Mickey,” Ian hissed, bunching up the material of his tank top in an attempt to stem the flow of blood. “It’s superficial. I’m fine.”

DeSota’s hand clamped down on Milkovich’s shoulder, pulling him off the table. “Chill the fuck out,” he warned. 

“He needs a fucking medic.” Milkovich shoved at DeSota’s hand.

“They’re on the way.” He could feel the tension in the muscles bunched at the man’s shoulders as he ran his tattooed index finger across his throat, making sure he had Dickenson’s attention first.

Shaking his head, Gallagher reached across the table to swat at Milkovich and break the staring contest he was having with Dickenson. “Stop, please.”

“He doesn’t get to fucking cut you, Ian.”

“Fine, then tell him how you feel.”

That got Milkovich’s attention, not to mention every other man within earshot, including the two medics who’d arrived. But Gallagher continued to stare expectantly at his boyfriend, who sucked his lip between his teeth and flicked annoyed eyebrows.

“I feel like fucking kill--”

“Mickey,” he hissed again and grimaced when the medic pulled the soaked material away from his chest.

“Fuck sake. I feel fucking angry.”

“That’s good,” Gallagher praised as his shirt was removed, revealing a clean slice running horizontal along his left pec. “What do you want to say to Dickhead?”

“Seriously?”

“Yes. Seriously.”

Glancing around at the other inmates, Milkovich shook his head at Gallagher then frowned as the medic rubbed the wound with an antiseptic pad.

“Dickhead,” he said clearly not caring who heard him. “Your prosocial skills are shit, asshole.”

******

Mickey looked up from his sketch to watch Ian spit toothpaste into the tiny sink, wondering if he’d finally managed to clean up the little gift Mickey had left for him. Chuckling, he looked back down at the shape forming on the paper. Even though he’d earned the privilege to have his own drawing materials, the state of Illinois correctional system offered the shittiest pencils available. How was he supposed to perfect his technique if he couldn't get a decent lead grade?

He paused again in his sketching to watch Ian lightly touch his chest where a thick bandage covered the dozen stitches. The muscle under the cut was pronounced from working out. He'd become a big fucker. When Mickey had escaped from prison and hooked up with Gallagher for a few days, he’d been sort of shocked at how physically different Ian was from how he’d remembered him. While he’d been locked up, Ian had grown up without him, and as much as the result was seriously hot, it wasn’t in-sync with the memories that had kept him going.

Dragging the side of the cheap pencil lead over the paper, he shaded the lines of teenage Ian’s skinny chest, trying with each attempt to capture the memory perfectly.

“Wanna come to my bunk after lights out?” Ian asked, drawing Mickey’s eyes back to the shape and size of current Ian. Maybe it was time to start drawing this version.

“I wanna draw you naked.” He tapped his paper, a little excited at the idea of having an actual model.

“Yeah?” Ian was looking at the sketches and doodles taped to Mickey’s bunk. “Tired of drawing other dudes?”

“Huh?” The lights dimmed slightly signalling 15 minutes until lights out, so Mickey tossed his pencil and sketchpad on the floor. “Only one dude for me, man.”

Ian squatted down slightly to get a look at the body taking shape on the page. “That’s me?”

“Who the fuck else would it be? DeSota?” He chuckled at the ridiculousness of that idea.

“Just...it looks...oh,” Ian smiled weirdly at him. “It _ was _me.”

“Still you, just more of you now.” Mickey added what he hoped was a lecherous eyebrow lift, and Ian stepped in front of him, leaning an arm along his bunk, hips directly in front of Mickey’s face.

“I’ll be up here if you wanna join me,” Ian announced, hefting himself up to his own bunk. “I happen to have a government provided lube packet with your name on it.”

Mickey laid back on his bed, smile wide. “I got my own brand of lube? ‘Bout time.” He could hear Ian laughing above him and felt something that might be in the ballpark of peace. 

The upper bunk creaked as Ian turned on his side. Guy couldn’t shut up when he was happy, so Mickey prepared himself for some chit chat. He could get on Mickey later.

“Hey?”

Mickey stared at the bunk above him. “Yeah?”

Ian’s hand appeared, dangling over the edge of his bed. Mickey smacked it away just to give him shit. Long fingers made a grabbing motion and Mickey smiled even wider in the dim light, then he twined his fingers through Ian’s, watching them close around each other.

“Will you move in with me when we get out?” Ian’s voice floated down to him. “I’ll score us a room to ourselves. Won’t have to share and no single bed. Fucking single beds.” 

Mickey didn’t know how to answer that. It wasn’t like he had a lot of options, but the Gallagher house also held a lot of ghosts and some shitty fucking memories. Not to mention a bunch of Gallaghers.

He was hard pressed to think of a location that didn't hold bad memories though. Maybe it was time to make some good fucking memories.

“You okay?” Ian asked after a few minutes of silence.

“Yeah.”

“I am too. Thanks for asking.”

He gave Ian’s fingers a hard yank but didn’t let go.

“You worried about our next therapy session?” Ian never did know how to drop a subject. “It might be good, Mick. I got some stuff on my mind, ya know.”

“No shit.”

It was Ian’s turn to yank on his fingers.

“No, really, like, um,” Ian began and Mickey stared hard at their joined hands, “some stuff that, ya know, went down, unhealthy choices, I guess.”

He ran the pad of his thumb over the crease along Ian’s palm, wondering vaguely if it was his life line.

“Okay, yeah, who doesn’t got that?”

“Some of its bugging me, Mick.”

“Stuff I don’t know about?” 

“Maybe.”

“Okay. I got stuff too.”

“That I don’t know about?”

“Maybe,” he sighed. “Not like we got a fucking choice anyway.”

“Crazy to think we might leave prison less fucked up than when we arrived.”

Their fingers moved slightly, just sharing the space.

“Imagine getting out, Mick.” Ian sighed happily. “You and me, free from this place. First thing we're doing is going to Lake Michigan. Take a stroll along the boulevard. So much open space.”

“Sure, we can do that.”

“Then what should we do?”

“Don’t matter to me.”

“It must.”

He didn't need to see Ian's confident assurance to know it had returned. It was a force Mickey depended on. “Why?”

“Don’t you wanna be something? Do something?”

“Like for money?”

“Yeah, most people eventually have to get a job. P.O. is gonna be riding your ass about it.”

“You worried I’m going to hold us back?” He made sure he said it lightly because he wasn't feeling angry about it. Probably did need to figure out a legal way to make money. 

“If you get picked up for even a small thing, they are never, ever going to let you out of prison again. They are still pissed that you escaped.” Ian's grip on his hand tightened almost painfully. "Never gonna survive that, okay?"

His chest definitely wasn't tight anymore because he believed Ian.

“Well, then I guess I’m getting a regular nine to five.”

“Going legit?” 

“Need some respectable clothes and one of those travel mugs for my coffee to get through my commute to the North Side.”

“Any idea what you’ll be doing?”

He had absolutely no clue in fact, and he knew that Ian knew that. “You gonna love me no matter what I do?”

“I’ve always loved you no matter what you do.”

“Yeah, that’s true.” He smiled smugly, remembering lovesick Ian. “That’s how I love you too.”

The lights flickered, dousing them in near darkness, and Ian’s whoop followed immediately. “Hurry up, Mick! Get up here.” His hand disappeared from Mickey's grip and a white tank top landed near his feet as he swung them onto the cold cement. “And ditch your shirt,” Ian added. “Wanna feel ya.”

Pushing to his feet, Mickey yanked his shirt over his head. It was definitely true that Ian had a thing for pressing his bare chest against Mickey. He dropped his shirt next to Ian’s and, before his body could hit the thin mattress on Ian’s bunk, he felt arms around his waist and a warm chest against his, but he pressed a palm to Ian's chest protecting the injured pec.

“Ahhnn,” Ian’s muffled groans filled his ear, making him shiver slightly and press closer to Ian’s lips, hoping for more sexy noises. Ian’s knee pushed between his thighs at the same time as a new shiver vibrated along Mickey’s spine. “Mmm,” Ian moaned and Mickey started humping Ian’s thigh, slow thrusts that matched the slow progress of Ian’s lips along his neck, jaw and finally lips.

For a second, Mickey felt the familiar tightness in his chest. So many of the kisses he’d shared with Ian were laced with desperation that some part of that permeated every kiss now, including this one. Ian’s mouth kept moving on his, tongue sweeping around his, then disappearing briefly as he shifted enough to suck on Mickey’s bottom lip before penetrating his mouth again.

Mickey gave into it fully, like he always did. Eager to have Ian inside him, invading his body and mind. Lifting his head from the prison issue pillow, he met Ian lick for lick and then relaxed when a big hand cupped the back of his head holding him in place.

They were both humping each other now, hips meeting as Ian’s free hand worked at the fabric separating them. Mickey wanted to help get them naked, but he couldn't let go of the grip he had on Ian’s shoulders, feeling the unfamiliar weight of him.

The kiss was Ian’s, the smell was Ian’s, the dick was definitely Ian’s, but sometimes he still felt different, thicker, heavier, like a man now, and maybe that was the underlying fear that Mickey couldn’t let go of. Was it still his Ian on the inside?

“Hi.”

Mickey opened his eyes to find Ian’s on him.

“Talk to me.”

“Nothing,” Mickey muttered, lifting back up to Ian’s mouth to shut him up. Ian had managed to free them enough that their erections were now pressed together, so he arched up but Ian never could be distracted.

“You worried that shit is going to go wrong?”

“Course. When doesn’t it? Between cartels and parole boards, my dad…” he trailed off as the list became unbearable.

“This time is gonna be different though.”

“How so?”

“We’ll be together. Really together.”

“Gonna have my back?” He hadn’t meant it to sound bitter, more just checking in.

"For the rest of your life."

"I'm down for that." 

Ian was still hovering over him, eyes serious.

“Remember when you told me you were sorry for being late?” Mickey nodded, blinking back years of doubt. “I’m sorry I’m late, Mickey.”

When Ian dipped down to kiss him, Mickey grasped the back of his head and held him in place, kissing him hard while his free hand shoved at his boxers, getting them past his knees so his feet could kick them the rest of the way off. Immediately, he tugged the fabric down Ian’s thighs as they separated enough for Ian to rip open the single use lube packet with his teeth. He spit the edge of foil over the side of the bed and squeezed most of it into Mickey’s open palm.

As his fingers closed around Ian, his knee came up between their bodies, and Ian bit into it before squeezing the remaining lube between his legs. The packet landed somewhere behind Mickey’s head and Ian’s finger pushed inside spreading moisture expertly. Mickey released him and lifted his hips in invitation.

One day, they were going to take their time, free from outside threat, but not tonight. Tonight, Ian entered quickly, holding his breath, teeth back on Mickey’s knee as he held himself still and let Mickey catch up. Then he started moving and Mickey lifted his head from the pillow one more time. Their tongues met and Ian cupped the back of his head like Mickey knew he would. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a difficult journey for us, as well as them, but for me it's been worth it because of the amazing people I've met along the way.


End file.
